


The Man in a Felt Hat

by Mazen



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Film Noir, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2020-10-10 15:29:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20530304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazen/pseuds/Mazen
Summary: Beneath the Palais Garnier, there lies a whole world of secrets; many of them seem mysterious and unearthly, but they are all as ordinary as the shade in the felt hat.This is the story of his failure.





	1. The Man in a Felt Hat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phana_Banana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phana_Banana/gifts).

> This is a prize for Sammy who made a fantastic gif of Ayesha keeping Erik up all night by bouncing around on his impressive organ.
> 
> Sammy wanted a phic about an obscure character from The Phantom of the Opera and I chose the Man (or the Shade) in the felt hat.  
Many think that it's just Erik lurking around, but the Persian specifically says to Raoul that it isn't Erik and that it's someone much worse than the opera police. The narrator also says that he can't say who the man is, as it's a matter of national security.
> 
> This phic will consist of two chapters: the first is an introduction of the man in the felt hat. The next will be an exploration of why he never stopped Erik when the Ghost could've blown up the entire opera.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

On the 28th of May 1871, the last of the Paris Commune was suppressed after The Bloody Week. 

For most Parisians life had gone back to normal after the siege by the Prussians had ended. But there were still daily fights between the Commune and the French government in which civilians were often injured or killed. The Commune had power among the lower classes, but more importantly: They had access to weapons and places to hide them. 

After the Commune had been defeated in May, the government was acting quickly to hide all evidence of its existence. Paris needed to be rebuilt as a city for high society and culture, and it was imperative that the memory of the proletariat's uprising be erased from everyone's mind. All flags, flyers and posters were burned; insurgents caught with weapons were immediately executed, while others were released and the rest imprisoned or even better - deported to New Caledonia.

But the remains of the Paris Commune proved to be more difficult to erase. Because of the large number of people who had helped them in their doings, weapons were hidden in places all over the city. And one of those places was the Palais Garnier - the Opera Populaire. The opera house had been under construction before the Paris Commune's rise and several of the former workers had been part of the movement. But it wasn't until the construction works were taken up again that the government realized what had been stashed beneath the structure, deep down in the catacombs: hundreds of barrels filled with gun powder.

Removing them from the site had quickly proved to be nearly impossible; the passage from their place in a hidden room was like a maze with several obstructions and obstacles. On top of that, a rumor about a malevolent ghost began to circulate, making it difficult to procure the manpower to remove the barrels. It didn't help that a few men were killed when they ventured into the catacombs, two seemingly drowned while another appeared to have hung himself. Therefore, the task of removing the barrels was abandoned. It wasn't worth the trouble.

However, the government decided that it was too dangerous to let the barrels sit unattended where anyone in theory could wander into the deepest cellars of the opera house and into the catacombs. It seemed ridiculous to imagine, but the newly formed government was paranoid; there was no arguing with it.

That is how I came to make my home underneath the opera house. After a rather unfortunate accident in my previous employment at the Ministry of War I was appointed to guard the dangerous treasure in the catacombs. My job was to lead unwelcome visitors away from the cellars before they ventured too deeply. I stayed a shadow - a mere shade - that surveyed the area and made sure that the barrels were secure. It was a punishment, of course, for the accident I had caused, but I took the job seriously. I cut all ties with friends and family to protect the secret of the Paris Commune's remains.

There had been eight men to hold my position before it was given to me. All competent men, who had the disadvantage of not knowing how to deal with the dangers in the cellars. Three of them drowned, despite being excellent swimmers. Four were found strangled, some as if they had been in an accident, others placed as a warning. The man I replaced was found in the streets outside, mumbling about yellow eyes and a burning forest; he was never quite the same.

On my first day, I arrived early and ventured into the opera house. Whether or not the Ghost was real, I knew that he was the one causing at least some of the many deaths and accidents down below. If I wanted to continue living - and I did - I had to make peace with him first. So I bribed an old box keeper to allow me access to Box Five - the Opera Ghost's box - where I left 30.000 francs - the last of my salary from my previous occupation - along with a note that said: "If you let me guard the cellars, I won't disturb your hauntings. Sincerely, the man in the felt hat."

It was two weeks after I started working in the cellars that I saw him. He came across me in the fourth cellar, allowing me to see his glowing yellow eyes, like a tall cat. I reached for my hat as if to lift it, but keeping it on; it was to alert him that I in fact was the man who'd left the note. The Ghost nodded once, then seemed to vanish into thin air.

I continued to keep my felt hat on at all times. The Ghost would know it was me when he came by me in the tunnels, and I kept my promise of never disturbing him. For good measure I had to venture into the catacombs once a week to ensure that the barrels of gun powder were left untouched, but I never strayed from my path, even when I heard a beautiful siren's song or noticed a gondola by the lake.

The Ghost wasn't the only one I had to deal with in the cellars. There were other entities, all of them harmless to me like the coal workers or the old rat catcher, but nonetheless interested in my presence down there. I let them be as long as they didn't go below the fifth cellar. If they did, I would swiftly take them to the surface and make sure that their work at the opera house was over.

Another unwelcome guest was the persistent Persian that seemed to look for a way into the catacombs. The man was clever and constantly on guard, but I was superior to his skills - as unaccustomed as he was to the dark and the mazes that existed in that space - and would dispose of him in the opera managers' office where they could deal with him. Those times I caught him, a nice bottle of red wine would appear in my chamber in the evenings; I believe the Opera Ghost enjoyed my guardianship in some ways.

I came to be known by the occupants of the cellars as the shade in a felt hat. Most of the cast and crew knew nothing of me, but those who did often confused me with the Ghost. Therefore, I was always left alone to do my job as I'd sworn to.


	2. The Girl in a Ballet Skirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's three chapters now, but that will be it.

It was rare that the cast and crew, or guess of the opera house would go below the third cellar where the costume and prop rooms were. Usually, it was a newly employed dresser who'd lost their way and I would discreetly lead them in the right direction. Which was why I was surprised one day when a cloaked, young girl in a ballet skirt was skulking around in the fifth cellar.

I was worried. Though I hadn't heard of the Opera Ghost hurting anyone of the weaker sex, I didn't know what he might do if one found their way down to his territory. Even if he wouldn't hurt her, there was still the matter of his traps which didn't distinct between gender nor age. Besides, the Opera Ghost and his trappings weren't the only dangerous things lurking in the shadows; while the coal workers left me alone because they were scared of me, a pretty young girl would be easy prey. I dared not think of the horrors she risked by going beneath the opera cast's own cellars. I was just glad I had seen her before anything had happened.

I kept to the shadows as I addressed her. "Girl," my voice frightened her, despite it being calm and friendly, "you cannot be down here. Do you not know of the dangers lying in wait?" Unlike the Ghost, I never hid the direction I was in. The girl, therefore, ran in the opposite direction. This was unfortunately the way towards one of the pathways into the catacombs; I cursed myself for not thinking of this as I ran after her.

I easily caught up with her, effectively trapping her from behind with both arms around her waist. She screamed and struggled, but I barely noticed it - only trapdoor she'd stepped on the moment I reached her, opening into a dark void. God only knows what horrors could've befallen her in there.

"Calm down, girl, I am not the Ghost." I hissed in her ear, as not to draw more attention to ourselves. I wasn't sure if the Ghost got any indications when a trapdoor was triggered, but I didn't want to find out with a vulnerable girl here. "But if you don't quiet, you will alert Him!" I warned and it succeeded in silencing her instantly. She finally stopped squirming in my arms and my hold on her eased.

"If I let you go, will you promise to follow me to safer grounds?" I asked her, already knowing that she would agree to anything if it meant safety. The poor girl was shaking, but I sensed it was the fear of the Opera Ghost and not me she feared. She squeaked out a barely audible yes and I let go of her right away. She turned around immediately to scrutinize me. I wasn't worried; all she could see was my dark clothes and felt hat. But when I saw her eyes widen in fright, I realized that I might not look much different to her than what had been told to the ballet rats about the Ghost. Reluctantly, I lifted my chin, so she could see that the lower part of my face was normal at least. No mask nor skeleton. 

She instantly relaxed. "Who are you, monsieur? Why are you down here?" Her voice was soft and still so very much like a child's. Unconsciously, her right hand lifted to her mouth. I cringed slightly as her teeth touched her nail; I'd always found nail biting revolting.

"I'm a sort of guardian." I said reluctantly, regretting the choice of words when I saw her eyes turn delighted. I rarely had any verbal interactions with others and had never had to explain my work to anyone. I should've taken her upstairs immediately, I realized. "What is a fragile girl like you doing in this dank place? Are you not aware of the dangers down here, human as well as not?" I tried to sound menacing, so she wouldn't think to return, but felt a bit ashamed when I saw tears spring from her eyes.

"I am desperate." She admitted, restraining a sniffle. "My mother sent me to study ballet a few years ago when my father died. She could not afford to feed me. And..." She looked up to see if I was listening. I was and prompted her to continue with a nod. "it's been okay, I guess. Most of the girls are nice to me and I love to dance. But now... Men have begun taking notice of me. And I should be grateful that they are interested because they often get some of the other girls gifts and such. But I'm scared of what they want in return." Even in the near blackness surrounding us, it was impossible not to see her blush. I knew what went on the various corners of the opera and in the dressing rooms, what the patrons expected to get from the young girls working here. "I've heard from some stagehands that there was treasure beneath the opera, down in the catacombs, leftovers from the Commune." She continued, her words only interrupted by small sniffles. "The Opera Ghost watches the rehearsals, they say, so I thought it would be safe to go look for it now. So I can get enough money to escape the patrons and perhaps even help Maman."

Her soft crying made my heart ache. How naive she was to believe that she could find a supposed treasure down here when no one else had succeeded! And so very desperate. I suddenly felt a pang of longing to a girl I'd once loved and yet long forgotten. My sister.

I hated that I had to disappoint this sweet child. "What is your name, mademoiselle?" I began walking, indicating that she should follow me; she did.

"Cécile Jammes, monsieur, though people just call me Little Jammes since there's another Cécile who works with the opera company." I hummed in response.

"Mlle Jammes, I must disappoint you. There is no treasure in the catacombs, only remains of the violence brought to the city by the Commune." I wasn't lying, I tried to comfort myself with, even when I heard her sigh in dismay. "Furthermore, I must ask you to stay away from the lower cellars and especially the catacombs. There _are_ worse things than amorous patrons."

"Oh. I see," was her only response, spoken in pure, restrained despair. I didn't know what more to say; I'd already spoken more to her than anyone else in the last six years, and my vow to stay hidden had been broken. The girl hadn't seen all of me, but more than anyone else. 

I led her to the third cellar, where the ballet rats' dressing was, intent on cutting the ties with a stern warning to never venture lower again. But as she stepped into the low light of the third floor hallway - I still hidden in shadows - I was struck by a sense of recognition. She didn't just resemble my long-gone sister; she could've been her. The thick, straight chestnut hair pinned messily on top of her round head, light grey eyes with a shade of green, a spray of freckles on her red cheeks as round as apples. Her nose and chin were both sharp like my own, one of the few traits I'd had in common with my sister. 

Only her voice was different, I tried to convince myself as the young girl curtsied and barely managed to whisper a thank you. I nodded in recognition, but stayed resolute in my resolve to let her go without more interactions. This Cécile was not my sister and I shouldn't let the similarities affect me. 

But as she walked down the hall to the ballet rats' dressing room, I found myself reminiscing of the past I'd fought to bury. 

Linette had only lived to be 19 years old. Our family had been poor and as soon as possible, Linette had been married off to the first man who showed an interest. Her beauty and her mild mannerisms could've caught the eye of gentlemen, but instead she got a brute of a husband. He was an honest contractor, but he spent most of their earnings on gambling and liquor. My dear sister took on laundering for others to meet ends meet, but the work was hard on her body. She birthed her husband two sons, but both were stillborn. 

I don't know what happened to her after the second birth. The midwife swore that Linette had been physically well when she left the couple to grieve, but the husband had reported that she'd begun to bleed and had bled out before he could fetch a doctor. The police accepted this blindly, ignoring the fact that he had beaten his wife black and blue after the birth of the first stillborn. 

I never stopped regretting that I didn't save her before that terrible fate befell her - or the lack of revenge I took. 

The ballet rats who had dealings with patrons regularly became pregnant as well. While most girls found the means for a termination, there were those whose morals were too great for that. They would often end up in the streets, begging for food or selling themselves to survive and take care of their child. The patrons never offered them any assistance, besides perhaps a small amount of money for a termination. 

Cécile didn't seem like the type to get a termination; but she was young and a lot could change if she found herself in a patron's bed - which was a figure of speech because the patrons never took the girls to bed. Only against the wall in a hallway or on a divan in an abandoned dressing room. Patrons would lure them with jewelry, promises of better lives, or even threats of ruining their career. There was nothing a young girl could do if a patron took an interest in her. 

The thought of someone taking advantage young Cécile's innocence in such a way was infuriating and foul. 

I stayed in the shadows near the hall of the third cellar floor long after rehearsals were over and the performers had finished their business in the dressing rooms. I contemplated the meaning of his existence without coming to a conclusion.

It was late in the evening when I heard it: the most enchanting voices filling the floor; a duet between a man and a woman unlike any I'd heard ever before. I felt drawn to an old dressing room where the song seemed to emerge from, and stood there bewitched by the melody that filled me with joy. However, it also left me with the conviction that I needed to do something more in my life than just the work of guarding the opera cellars. 

It might be that I was just desperate for some kind of human interaction after six years in the bowels of the opera, or perhaps it was the guilt I carried from not interfering in my sister's abusive marriage, but in that moment I swore that the little ballet rat never would have to suffer the fate, she feared. 

As the voices finished the haunting song and a woman mumbled a thanks to an angel - the notion briefly amused me - I reached into the inner pocket of my coat where I kept a few pieces of blank paper and a pen, then quickly wrote a note to Cécile. I crept into the hall, found the ballerinas' dressing room and hid the note among the costumes belonging to Mlle Jammes.

She would hopefully understand who the author of the note was: I'd signed it "Sincerely, the man in a felt hat." 


	3. The Skeleton by the Well

I helped Cécile the best I could while still keeping my presence a secret. Most people who spent any time in the lower cellars knew that they shouldn't cross any cloaked persons down there, in case it was the Opera Ghost or me, but most of their quiet whispers about the entities below the opera were kept between them; I wouldn't want it known to the whole opera house that my existence was real. I suspected the Ghost felt the same way.

Cécile appreciated my help, of that I was sure. At times I observed her as she opened the envelopes I'd left with my own earnings; her smile was almost as beautiful as my sister's had been. I hoped she saved her money to help herself and her mother survive without having to degrade herself by going with a patron. Many girls did not mind, but Cécile did. She was mocked by the other girls and the rumor spread that Little Jammes was a prude, but this only helped my cause; most patrons stopped paying attention to her and if one didn't, I would make sure that the message was clear: she was not to be touched.

I admit that my interest in Cécile's welfare became somewhat of an obsession to me and I found myself observing her more often than not. It was what became my downfall.

I ignored other events at the opera that should've been a priority to me: I didn't alert the new managers of my presence and I blatantly disregarded Joseph Buquet's strange death, letting the police rule it an accident, though knowing well that the stagehand had been wandering too far into the cellars and had been punished by the Ghost.

But I didn't think it mattered. After all it proved that the Ghost kept the catacombs safe enough from intruders, despite the drastic measures he took.

One occurence I did care about was the arrival of Vicomte Raoul de Chagny - the much younger brother of Comte Philippe de Chagny. I began to fear for little Cécile's safety. The young man would wear a mild, but determined expression as he stalked through the third cellar where the dressing rooms were. At first it seemed like the Vicomte was interested in a little chorus girl. I'd heard the ballet rats make a fuss over her, something about her improved voice, but I didn't pay much attention to these things. However, even at times when the soprano wasn't there, the Vicomte would roam past the dressing rooms, bothering the cast.

Two times he came up to Cécile and though his manner was somewhat docile, he was insistent in such a way that made the poor girl uncomfortable. I could not hear their conversations, but it wasn't necessary; I'd seen the way his brother, the Comte, seemed to think he owned the ballet girls and apparently, the Vicomte had a similar attitude.

I was certain that he was bad news and indeed that was what he turned out to be. Not because he was after Cécile, but because he had angered the Opera Ghost, had interfered with the Ghost’s plans, and we were all going to pay the price. But I didn’t understand this until it was too late.

One night I watched Cécile Jammes go on stage with the other ballet girls and I waited patiently until the dressing room was empty before planting my envelope among her things, well hidden. She’d kept our little secret - bless her heart - and no one in the opera knew that I left money for her.

However, as I covered the envelope with the large, lush skirt of her day dress, a violent commotion sounded from above, followed by screams. I hurried to reach the 1st floor where chaos was erupting; the chandelier had crashed into the audience, injuring several audience members. However, my focus was only on finding Cécile.

After pushing through the crowds, thankfully ignored by them despite my attire that concealed the most of me, I discovered the girl cowering in the left wing by the stage. She was frantic and crying, talking about Carlotta sounding like a toad and the Phantom of the Opera attempting to kill them all. I found a cloak to cover her in - the ballet dress was neither warm or appropriate - and followed the poor girl home where her mother could take care of her.

I knew I had to find a way to deal with the Opera Ghost now that his pranks on the opera had gotten so serious, but I was reluctant to act. If I was killed, Cécile would have no one to turn to, and it was certain that I would just be replaced by another dumbwitted man who the Ghost would quickly dispose of.

In the end I left a letter on the bank of the underground river where I’d once caught sight of a boat. In the letter I informed him that I would take action against him, should he repeat such serious activity. The note I received in return was not only frightening because of its contents, but also because I found it among Cécile’s things when I was placing the envelope with money for her. The letter was short and cryptic, but effective enough to scare me:

> Dear Monsieur Man in the Felt Hat  
I do not know what activity you’re referring to, but I assure you that my deeds are for the greater good of the opera house. If you interfere with my plans in the future, I will find it necessary to pay Mlle Jammes a visit.  
I trust your judgement in how to proceed.  
Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,  
OPERA GHOST.

The threat to Cécile’s safety was a potent weapon against me and it had the desired effect: I nearly convinced myself that the chandelier was an accident, no matter what pointed to otherwise. Worse yet, I ignored taking real notice of the more frequent footsteps in the catacombs, more than one set of them passing by when I hid in the tunnels. When I encountered one of the stable’s horses down in the deepest part of the catacombs, wandering about aimlessly, I merely took it back to the stable. And when I received a note from my superiors that the opera managers were requesting my help, I burned it with every intention of forgetting it.

It was ridiculous how easily I’d become passive in regards to the increasing activities of the Ghost, but his awareness of my affection towards Cécile had made me so. I truly understood now why a man in my position was supposed to live without connections to the rest of the world; I was at war with myself, needing to do my duty, but at the same time wanting to keep Cécile safe.

At least the barrels of gunpowder weren’t in danger. The Opera Ghost made sure of that and I found the thought comforting; the most important part of my job was being fulfilled, even though I wasn't the one directly fulfilling it. I didn't know that something sinister was underway.

An evening on my way to the ballet rats' dressing room I heard screams coming from the auditorium once again. Cursing myself for closing my eyes to the increasing danger of the Ghost’s actions, I made my way to the right wing of the stage, keeping in the shadows.

To my immense relief I found Cécile was safe, though I knew that I could not risk her life a third time. Unseen, I pulled her into the shadows, frightening her unnecessarily in my hast. Several minutes were wasted by trying to calm her, but I couldn’t stand to see her cry.

“Dear child, you must leave the opera,” I commanded when her sobs had subsided. “Here’s the last of my money. You now have enough to provide for you and your mother for a year, perhaps two.” I thrusted the envelope into her trembling hands. It wasn’t really the very last of my earnings, but I would send her the rest. There was no time to waste now.

“Furthermore, I will ensure a position for you as a governess at the house of Maria Amélie of Orléans, the daughter of the Comte of Paris. She’s to be married to the Prince Royal of Portugal. You and your mother will leave France,” at this she attempted to interrupt me, so I held a finger to her lips; a knot twisted in my gut as I remembered doing this often with my dear sister.

“You’re a bright girl, Cécile, and I know you will serve well as a governess,” I concluded with no room for argument. However, it wasn’t herself she was worried about when I lifted my finger from her lips.

“But what of you, Monsieur? What will you do?” Tears had filled her eyes and I realized they were for me. A beautiful young girl crying for a man who did not exist.

“I have to meet the Ghost,” I tried to hide the fear I felt as I spoke the words. “He has to be stopped.”

“He has Christine Daaé, Monsieur. Will you save her?” To my embarrassment it wasn’t until Cécile told me this that I connected all the dots: the Vicomte asking for the little soprano, the Ghost targeting the Prima Donna la Carlotta, the singing in the dressing room and double set of footsteps in the cellars; the Opera Ghost had become obsessed with a girl, much like myself, but his intentions and methods were more wicked.

It was not of my concern, but could I leave the young woman to the fate in store for her at the hands of the Ghost when it was my failure to keep the cellars safe that led her there? I knew what I had to do.

I sent Cécile home with strict instructions not to go back to the opera house. The Comte of Paris would send for her and prepare her for the position as governess in a royal house; it was likely that she would marry well enough and lead a comfortable life in Portugal.

It was with haste I fled through the cellars to get the last of the money I had stored in my hidden room and the letter from Prince Philippe, Comte of Paris, who owed me a favor. I was in such a hurry that I ignored the Persian and the Vicomte as I passed them. I briefly considered blocking their way and sending them away, but they were heading away from the Commune’s passage in the catacombs; it was not my responsibility if they were caught by the Ghost.

I gathered the last of my savings and wrote a letter to the Comte of Paris, explaining Cécile’s situation in detail and my expectation that he would treat her well as an employer until his daughter was married and sent to Portugal with Cécile.

There was no doubt the Comte would find this favor a relief; he owed me much more, but I didn’t wish for anything more than a good future for Cécile. That was enough for me.

With the money and the letter I left my room for the last time. I brought a few weapons, including my pistol, knowing well enough that the Ghost was clever and deadly; every asset I had was needed.

I was not sure what drove me all the way down to the catacombs. My priority was to get the money and the letter sent to their rightful recipients, yet I found it imperative that I checked the Commune’s dungeon to make sure the barrels were safe; it was my job after all, one that I’d shirked in my fear of the Ghost.

To my horror I discovered the worst possible outcome, one I had not taken into account: someone had prepared a fuse between the barrels, connecting each and every one to a cord leading into the ceiling. A simple spark was all that was needed to demolish the entire opera house and a great deal of the city.

A catastrophe beyond imagination was imminent and I was the one at fault.

In a state of panic I started pulling at the cord in the ceiling, only to find it firmly stuck. It triggered some sort of alarm, deafening me, but I was too busy disarming the barrels to care. My actions did not make sense. A spark to the gunpowder inside one barrel would set them all off; the fuses between them were only there to ensure a simultaneous explosion, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. Never had I acted so unprofessionally.

What happened after, I do not remember. One moment I was futilely disarming the barrels, the next I found myself waking up somewhere else. My head was aching, leading me to quickly surmise that I’d been struck unconscious.

At first I credited my inability to move to the head injury, but as minutes passed I realized that I was utterly paralyzed. None of my limbs were able to move and my mouth was unable to call for help. I started to find it harder to breathe.

I was in the catacombs not far from the Commune’s dungeon, of that I was certain, recognizing the tunnels even in the complete darkness. Somewhere in the distance I heard metal striking stone as if someone was carving something into the stone walls, and I heard the sound of water sloshing, though at times I swore it sounded like a woman crying softly.

How much time passed before I saw movement in the dark, I do not know. But what I saw terrified me beyond reason: it was the Ghost himself, uncovered. If he hadn't been moving, I would’ve thought him long dead; his face was that of a rotting corpse with a hole where there should’ve been a nose. I understood now why he hid among the rats.

His eyes glowed yellow as I knew well, but the devilish glare in them was new to me. He smiled at me like a madman, for that is what he was. I should’ve known that the Commune’s barrels weren’t safe with such a spectre stalking the opera, yet I hadn’t imagined how crazy he was. But even a man you can reason with can be unpredictable - a lesson I learned too late.

I willed myself to move, but I wasn't able to; only my eyes could move enough to watch him coming towards me. He must’ve noticed the fear and confusion in my eyes.

“I apologize for the poison which causes your paralysis,” he leered with a voice too beautiful for such a creature, “it’s simply the plant Conium maculatum that has you in such a state and you will not get better. Soon, your organs will be unable to move and you will likely die of inability to breathe.”

I’d never feared death before. In my line of work it had always been a given that I would die before my time, but I had expected my demise to be from a gunshot or a stabbing; never had I imagined that I would suffocate silently in my own body. I fought to shout, beg for his mercy, but no words would come. And I knew that it was useless, for this was a monster in front of me and he held no mercy.

“I have a last purpose for you. My intention had never been to harm you; you proved to be useful in disposing of the Daroga often, but then you started meddling in my affairs. It would not do. Luckily, you being here has not been fruitless.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a simple gold ring. Kneeling in front of me, he slipped the ring on my ring finger without any resistance from me, no matter how I tried. I couldn’t even feel his touch on my skin.

Still on his knees, he reached into his pocket again and dug out a few letters. I recognized them as the letter to the Comte of Paris, as well as the letter with money for Cécile. In my mind I screamed in desperation.

“I found these letters as I disposed of your clothing,” I strained my eyes to look down my body and discovered that my own clothes had been replaced with fine evening wear - the Ghost’s own clothing. Little by little I began to understand his intent. “I do not believe I owe you any favors, but I do have a soft spot for the little ballet rats. After all it isn’t their fault how hopeless the choreography is. Therefore I will send these letters for you, securing your little Jammes’ future.”

For an unfathomable reason I found peace with these words. My death was imminent, the Ghost had won, but Cécile would be safe. Even in this horrific state, I found myself grateful for the creature’s kindness.

“I know what it means to love,” the Ghost murmured, reaching for my hand and tracing the golden ring. “I will take your life, but not the proof of your love for her. If you truly care for her, I know you will be satisfied with that.” He was right; I was.

He pulled me up, throwing me over his shoulder as though I weighed nothing. Despite his appearance as a walking corpse, he carried me down the tunnel, passing the Commune’s dungeon where a small lantern was lit and various stone mason tools lay scattered. I’d passed this place many times and instantly noticed the new addition to the initials of the dead inside: R C.

I remembered the young Vicomte asking for the soprano and later wandering in the cellars with the Persian. Could it be… Raoul de Chagny.

The Ghost carried me to the little well in the fifth cellar and eased me down, so I leaned against the well, arranging my hands in a way that made the ring easy to see.

“The rats will find you eventually,” he said almost apologetic, “but you will have stopped breathing by then.” I knew the truth in his words as I was already fighting to fill my lungs with air.

“I did not use the barrels as intended, therefore your mission was a success. They’re now flooded with water from the underground lake, the gunpowder forever ruined.” I knew my superiors wouldn’t view this as success because they had plans to use the gunpowder the next time there was a war, but I couldn’t find it in me to care.

“I’m sorry you won’t live to lead a happy life as I am now destined to, but I’m certain your afterlife will be more pleasant than mine. I apologize for making you meet it much sooner than me.”

With those words the Ghost left me to my fate, slowly suffocating, forced to die in the cellars where we’d both lived. I knew he would find another place to dwell and wondered if Christine Daaé was forced to join him or if he had been kind enough to kill her. I wasn’t naive enough to believe that he would let her go.

Yet, I felt no doubt that this man - this corpse - would keep his word and post the letters to ensure that Cécile would have a bright future. While I wasn’t sure this was enough to earn me a place in Heaven, it allowed me to let the guilt about my sister go.

I could finally be free. There was no longer a need for the Man in a Felt Hat.


End file.
